


Help Me Rhonda

by soopsnatch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Dean in Panties, F/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Panty Kink, Pink Panties, Porn With Plot, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soopsnatch/pseuds/soopsnatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is off hunting, and Dean is tired of watching Sam do his homework. He decides to blow off some steam, but gets more than he bargained for when co-ed Rhonda Hurley picks him up at the local watering hole. A panty!kink-inspired romp.</p><p>"And you know what? We kind of liked it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me Rhonda

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! If you like what you read, come visit me at blunderbussmatterhorn.tumblr.com. I call myself a Supernatural blog, but really 75% of what I post is just Jensen Ackles's face. Sometimes I make things (like the drawing below). Caveat for this fic: Don't have sex under the influence. It negates consent and that's just not a good idea. However, these characters are flawed and don't always make good decisions, so...

 

[ ](http://blunderbussmatterhorn.tumblr.com/tagged/mine)

 

 

 

Rhonda Hurley was something out of right field, but then, Dean was a nineteen-year-old dude. Granted, Rhonda thought he was pushing twenty-two because that's what the fake that got him into that dim, smoky college bar said he was. It helped that he hadn't shaved that morning, so he could almost sell it.

For all that Dean Winchester had always felt older than his years, he had a sweet face. That's the sort of thing people told him, usually before they kicked him out of bars like this one. It made working undercover almost impossible and caused no end of frustration for his dad.

"Who's going to believe a catalog model is working for the state police?" He would say, making Dean stay behind to watch Sam, who at fifteen was clearly more than capable of pouring his own Lucky Charms. Which was fine. Dean would watch TV. Sam would do his homework. The boys, though, had spent countless nights waiting up to see whether John was going to come back and collect them for the hunt or go it alone. Often, when John didn't come back, they wouldn't see him for days until he stumbled in either drunk and victorious, or drunk and angry.

That Friday, John had gone two towns over to bury himself in cemetery records and death certificates, searching for evidence of an unidentified vengeful spirit that he was convinced would explain several recent, gruesome deaths. It was hours after any normal records office had closed, and Dean had watched every rerun airing on TV. Sam had his nose buried in a book, and didn't move a muscle when Dean flipped off the set. Or when he threw a pillow across the room at his little brother's head and missed. Dean drummed his hands on his thighs, then stood up, resolute.

“Sammy, I'm going out for a drink.” Nothing. “You know where to find the pay-per-view if you get lonely.” Sam raised his head and gave his older brother a scathing look. Dean returned it with a grin and put on his jacket.

“What about dad?” Dean waved a hand dismissively and checked his wallet to make sure he had the correct ID.

“I'll be back later. Don't forget to bolt the door behind me.” He didn't give Sammy time to protest further before pulling the door shut behind him.

Dean headed off down the road towards a little college bar he'd been eying on the way into the small town. It was the kind of place that would be packed on a Friday night with students trying to make bad decisions as loudly as possible—students who wouldn't take much notice of a lone dude with his collar turned up until they lost the bets they were sure to make against him at darts or pool. Neon beer signs blazed in the windows, and garish, poppy music spilled out the door as Dean opened it and walked inside. He muscled his way through the crowd, squeezing past a couple of burly guys and their girlfriends who all smelled like the vodka they were sweating, and ordered a beer.

“You stick out like a sore thumb,” said a voice that curled into his ear. Dean jumped. He hadn't noticed the girl slip in beside him at the bar. “You a townie?”

“Ah, no. Just passing through.” Dean tried to turn to get a better look at the girl he was talking to, but he was being jostled and the beer was sloshing in his glass as he tried to sip it.

“Too bad. I love townies. They bed easy.” The girl let out a bark of a laugh when she saw Dean splutter into his drink.

“At last, a woman who takes it slow,” Dean said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve in an attempt at composure.

Finally, the crowd parted and he could see the girl at his elbow who had had her eye on him since he walked through the door. She wasn't tall, her dirty-blonde hair wasn't particularly long, and she had sharp features, but she was smiling. Dean might not have picked her out of the crowd, but this girl wasn't waiting around to be noticed. In fact, she wasn't giving him a choice in the matter. “But you're not a townie, huh? What's your name, stranger?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester. And you're—” The girl shifted slightly, and Dean's eyes darted to the neckline of her tight black tank-top where just a sliver of her pale pink bra was visible peeking out the top. He cracked a smile and cleared his throat, “—uh , a student here?”

“Rhonda Hurley.” Dean hesitated only a moment before bending down so he wouldn't have to shout.

“Well, Rhonda Hurley, can I buy you a drink?” Rhonda smiled at him and tilted her head to one side.

“Thought you'd never ask.”

Rhonda Hurley, it turned out, was a pharmacology student. “With a minor in philosophy,” she added, sipping her rum and coke through the stirrer. Not only a fan of picking up townie-boys, she also loved smoking pot and listening to Pink Floyd. Dean laughed and shook his head when he heard this, but Rhonda had a mean poker face. There was a hard glint in her eye, but her tone was warm. Dean was used to spending time with girls in the backseat of their father's cars, or else being shoved into the closet at the barest suggestion of approaching footsteps. Rhonda was something else. He may have spent his young life hunting the nightmarish things that go bump in the night, but something about her smile made him feel green. It was like he was five-foot-six again and didn't know where to put his hands.

Rhonda wouldn't have wanted it any other way. She had watched Dean wander into the bar like he was stepping onto a minefield. He wore a leather jacket that he didn't fit into yet, and he had a starved look that almost kept Rhonda away—green eyes, freckles, angelic lips and all. But Rhonda didn't spook easy. The tougher they came, the more she wanted to rattle them and see what shook loose.

“Are you in town for long, Dean?”

“That's up to my dad.” Dean looked into his glass, swirling its contents and watching the beer foam and settle.

“Family affair?” Rhonda asked, glancing over the rim of her drink like she didn't know she had asked the kind of question that dropped like a hot coal into the pit of his stomach.

“Something like that,” said Dean, wearing the smile of a man recalling a joke that clearly wasn't funny. Rhonda arched an eyebrow.

“He's around, your old man?”

“Around? Well, around doesn't always mean he's all there.” Rhonda's brow knit ever so slightly. “Never tells me what he has going on, just runs out like he doesn't think I can handle it—” Dean seemed to hear what he was saying and broke off quickly. “Anyways, college girl, I'm sure your dad is proud of you.”

Rhonda put down her empty glass. “I've got my reasons for being here.”

“Wish I could forget mine,” said Dean.

She took a good, long look at him. Then, Rhonda leaned over towards him and perched her tits on the edge of the bar so they were nearly grazing his arm. Dean stopped staring at his beer. "Did you know," she asked him conspiratorially, “that if you play Dark Side of the Moon at the same time as The Wizard of Oz, they sync up?"

"The Wizard of Oz?" Dean asked, his eyes snapping back up to her face. "Is that a b-side?"

"You've never seen The Wizard of Oz?" Rhonda's eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief, her lips curling up at the corners. "Oh, you're coming with me.” Dean smirked, threw back the dregs of his beer, and followed her out of the bar and down the street, where she dragged him through someone's manicured hedges to the campus dorms.

Rhonda's room was small and dim, but she had managed to cram a futon in next to her bed and across from her desk, which was supporting an impressive audio-visual set-up. “Let's call it borrowed,” she said when Dean remarked on it, and began to rustle through a slurry of papers, books, and records to find the correct tape to put into the VCR.

“Do you, uh, do this a lot?” Dean asked, taking off his jacket and tossing it aside.

“Hm? Yeah, sort of,” said Rhonda absently as she bent over to search under the desk. “I start it a lot, but I almost never get to the end. If I'm alone, I always fall asleep, and if I'm not—oh—here we go.” Dean nodded his head as she produced the tape and queued it, his question not really answered.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around curiously. Rhonda had a large, red-and-purple tapestry hung over the window, and various band posters taped to the walls. The Nirvana poster was enshrined separately over her bed. “I had such a thing for Kurt Cobain,” she told Dean with a sigh, turning him around to face her. Then she pushed him down onto the futon and produced a perfectly rolled joint. “So, got a light?”

Rhonda gingerly placed the needle on the record—Dean had shrugged non-noncommittally when Rhonda insisted that Floyd could only be played on vinyl. He'd always done just fine with cassettes, personally—perfectly timed with the MGM lion's last roar, and then took a long, lingering drag.

Dean's eyes were fixed on her fingers as she removed the joint from between her lips. She sidled over to Dean and lowered herself onto his lap. His heart started to pound in time with the album's opening pulses. Rhonda gave his thigh a squeeze as she straddled him, and with her other hand titled his head back. Capturing his mouth in hers, she exhaled slowly and he drank in the pungent smoke. Rhonda drew away, biting at his bottom lip, leaving him a little slack-jawed. “Yeah?” she asked.

Dean could have said no. He could have told her, _Actually, I can't do this, I've gotta be somewhere else. Actually, I've have to get back to my brother. Actually, I should be waiting for my dad to come back and give me my orders._ But he didn't.

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, and he let her kiss him again.

Dean didn't know if he was experiencing the Dark Side of the Rainbow—he was having trouble concentrating on the movie beyond acknowledging the shift from black and white to technicolor that left vague splotches in his vision—but he didn't hate the fuzzy weight—like a palm pressing against his forehead—that the smoke Rhonda blew into his lungs had left, nor the warm weight of Rhonda on his chest as they kissed, slow and heavy. They broke apart only to share hits.

Rhonda ran her hands through Dean's hair, down his neck, across his shoulders and up again, feeling the softness of his well-worn cotton tee, the pulse at his throat with her fingertips, and palms, and knuckles. Her breasts pressed against him as she moved, and as he drifted he could swear she had taken command of his slowed breathing. Dean's heart flitted in the tight cage of his chest. He forgot what he was supposed to be waiting for.

His fingers dug into Rhonda's thighs, her ass, her hips, and he found the exposed skin where her tank had ridden up and followed it. He started to protest when Rhonda pulled away from him, but it was only to lift her top over her head. When she she leaned back into him, he realized that somehow she'd already gotten his shirt off too.

Rhonda's body suddenly felt very hot against him, so he drew away from her lips and sloppily kissed his way down her neck to her shoulder. It was like kissing warm, yielding, polished stone—smooth. Dean's tongue slipped out from between his lips, tasting her skin. Rhonda made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and cotton-headed Dean was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the pressure building in his abdomen.

The dissonant chiming of Floyd's clocks brought Rhonda temporarily out of her reverie. Shifting her weight on Dean's lap, she clasped her hands behind his head and leaned back to look him in the eye. “I don't usually do this when I'm high,” she drawled, and bit her lip. Dean couldn't help but groan a little, because with the way she was sitting, he was starting to be able to feel his fluttering pulse in his cock.

Rhonda took Dean's chin in one hand and giggled a little when she made his lips purse, so she bent down and brushed them with a kiss. “But you're so fucking pretty,” she said against his mouth, almost like a snarl, her words pulled from the back of her throat. They shot through Dean like lightning, and he couldn't tell whether or not he liked the way they curled in his stomach. “I'll tell you what. You can eat me out, and then maybe....”

She tilted her head to one side, laughing at the moony expression on Dean's face as he wet his lips. His hands found their way to the fly of Rhonda's jeans, and she climbed off of his lap to help him pull them off. Her tiny, soft, baby pink, satiny panties stretched perfectly over her hips. A few curls of hair peeked out above the waistband. Dean sucked in his cheeks as he looked her over, but was interrupted when she sat up and told him, “Now your turn. Stand up.” Dean rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Take off your pants.” Dean undid his belt and zipper, and then slid his thumbs into the waistband of boxers and jeans and pulled them down his hips, grinning a little sheepishly when his cock sprang free. Head still light, he stumbled a little trying to kick his pants to the side. Rhonda sat back against the futon, watching him through heavy eyelids, gently rubbing herself in small circles over her underwear.

“Now come take these off.” Rhonda's voice was huskier, deeper. Dean ran his hands down her curves to her hips. “With your teeth.” The command was sharp, cutting through the haze in his mind, and Dean, not one to resist an order, obeyed, bending low over her stomach. Rhonda arched her back to lift her butt off of the seat, and Dean guided the underwear down her legs, his stubble catching on her soft skin, his breath hot.

Dean sat back on his heels. Rhonda took the panties out of his mouth and gently stroked his cheek with them, tracing his jaw before dropping them on the floor. His eyelids fluttered at the touch, then he heard her say, “Put them on.”

“Whoa,” said Dean, recoiling and glancing at the satiny panties lying beside his knees. Rhonda stroked his neck soothingly, imploring. “I want to see you in them while you're between my thighs.” She kissed him softly. “I saw the way you were looking at them. No one here to know.” An unwelcome image of John flashed through Dean's mind. “Just me.” Her kiss was deeper this time, enveloping him, calming him. A little thought appeared, just for a moment, like a tiny light in his mind, _What if?_ , and his cock gave a small twitch. When they broke apart, he smiled.

“Okay,” he sighed, picking up the underwear, then mumbling, “if they'll fit,” under his breath. Rhonda's gaze was fixed on him as he stood to put them on.

The pink panties seemed so small in his hand, but Dean stepped into them carefully and they stretched as he tucked himself into them. He shivered at the brush of smooth, cool fabric against his hot, sensitive skin. Rhonda sighed contentedly. “So pretty,” she whispered, sitting up. Warmth and color rushed into Dean's face. His skin hummed and he stood straighter as Rhonda raked her fingertips down his stomach and traced the outline of his cock, her touch deadly light. Dean tried not to wince, which made Rhonda laugh before pulling him down into a deep kiss, sucking on his flushed bottom lip and running her fingers through his hair.

“Now kiss me,” she ordered, pushing Dean down between her thighs. He knelt, aware of the way the panties shifted and bunched as he moved, and looked up at her, searching her face for approval. She let him grasp her hips, and pull her towards the edge of the futon. Then, Dean leaned in and planted a kiss on the soft skin above her clit, sucking lightly. He felt a shudder run through her, and her legs tensed on either side of his head. It pulled at something deep inside him, spurring him on. Dean moved lower, gently kissing her, pressing his mouth against her. The tip of his tongue slid between his lips and along her slit, lighting lapping in long strokes. Dean moved a hand to her stomach, and slid it downwards so that his large, square thumb rested on that sweet spot. He began to rub circles there the way he had seen Rhonda doing with her own fingers.

Rhonda started to rock, her hips jolting as Dean continued his kiss. Her hands traveled over her stomach and chest, freeing her own tits from her bra and grasping at her wide, soft nipples. Dean tongued her slick folds more quickly, breathing heavily, searching out her clit, circling it. Rhonda moaned again, deep in the back of her throat, and wrapped one leg around Dean's shoulders, drawing him closer. Dean, unable to stop himself any longer, reached down to his aching cock, and began to rub himself through the slippery fabric in time with Rhonda's building moans.

His heart raced. The lapping of his tongue grew less delicate and more frenzied. A groan caught in Rhonda's throat. “Dean—use your other hand.” Her request came as a gasp and she grabbed a handful of his hair. Dean removed his hand from his stiff prick, which was straining against its silky confines, and pushed two fingers inside her. Rhonda tensed and spasmed around his fingers as he minutely pumped them in and out. Dean sucked hard on her clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue and pressed into her, and then Rhonda came with a gasping, choked moan. Her hips bucked against his mouth, and she held his face between her legs until the waves of pleasure had subsided.

“Mm, good,” sighed Rhonda, catching her breath and relaxing her grip as he rested his head against her thigh. “Good boy.” A smile spread across his face as Dean looked up at her, and he reached up and pulled her face to his, kissing her hungrily. Their mouths tasted colorful, like Rhonda, salt, and pot smoke. Rhonda dragged her fingers through Dean's hair, grazing the back of his neck with her fingernails and pulling back his head so she could suck at his neck. Dean whimpered. Rhonda let her hands wander to Dean's satin-swathed ass and squeezed it, then hitched up the panties and gave him a playful slap. “Lay down,” she told him. Her wicked grin had returned.

Dean swallowed and lay lengthwise on the futon, leaning back on his elbows. “Relax,” Rhonda told him, and pushed his shoulders back. His stomach ached with need and his balls felt tight in that damn underwear, which was rubbing and sliding against him in the most maddening way. Rhonda ran her hand down his chest, brushing his nipples and tracing the lines of his ribs, his hips. Dean felt the warmth of Rhonda's palm on his length, and then his mind went completely blank.

Rhonda sat between his legs, one hand on his thigh, the other slowly sliding the fabric of her panties along his dick and balls. Rhonda watched Dean's face, the flutter of his eyelashes against his freckled cheeks, the pout of his pink mouth as he inhaled. Dean's fists were clenched at his sides, and the muscles in his jaw were taught. Rhonda pulled the waistband of the underwear down a little, revealing just the soft head of his cock which was dewy with precum and the same flushed pink as Dean's lips. She kissed it lightly and heard Dean's sharp intake of breath. Still massaging his balls through the fabric, Rhonda pulled the panties down a little lower. She let them slide over his shaft and followed the touch of the fabric with her lips. Then, gripping the base of his cock tightly in her fist, she began to tongue him, working her way back up towards the head.

Rhonda pushed her lips down over the tip and heard a low, keening whine start to build in the back of Dean's throat. She pushed her head down further, tongue spread wide to engulf as much of Dean's dick as she could manage in the heat of her mouth before withdrawing. Rhonda moved to suck and lick at Dean's balls while pumping his cock firmly, her hand running up and over the tip and down again. It was the light, practiced brushing of her fingers on that sensitive spot on the underside of his prick that got Dean's hips to start bucking and his breath to quicken. Dean dug his fingers into his hip as Rhonda took him into her mouth again, moaning herself as he started to lose it. His let go with a grunt, and his release was sweet and long and Rhonda caught all of it in her mouth.

Dean was raw, but warm. Somewhere along the way, the record had finished and the automatic needle had lifted and returned to its resting position. Rhonda pulled away from his prick and daintily spat his load into a lined wastebasket next to the futon. He watched her through half-open eyes. She turned back towards him just as he was moving to slip the panties off his hips. Rhonda stopped him. “Keep them on,” she said, running a hand over his thigh. “They suit you.”

“Don't say that.” Dean covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes and feeling his burning cheeks. His head was still too cloudy to focus, but clear enough that he wasn't sure he wanted to.

“Dean,” said Rhonda softly, continuing to stroke his skin, “You're kind of kinky.” Dean chuckled at that.

“No, just messed in the head,” he said lightly.

Rhonda didn't return his smile, but said,“Yeah, maybe that too,” and tapped him on the forehead. She rose, not bothering to cover herself, and turned off the muted television set before going into the bathroom. When she emerged, Dean was fast asleep, sprawled on the futon. Rhonda shook him, but there was no response. “Ass,” said Rhonda. “Who said you could sleep over?” Still, she threw a spare blanket over him and couldn't help brushing a strand of mussed hair off his forehead before she climbed into her own bed and fell asleep.

Dean slept soundly and awoke well-rested, barely bleary, but reeking of pot and sex. It took him a minute to place where he was as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His arm dropped back into his lap, and that was when he read his watch— _shit_ —and jumped up from the futon. He hastily pulled on his jeans and shirt, threw his jacket over his arm, and had his hand on the doorknob when he stopped to look over at Rhonda, who was still asleep in her bed, naked and tousled. He shook his head and picked his way through the room to her, where he leaned down and kissed her cheek. She stirred and made a sort of snorting sound, but didn't wake up as he slipped out the door.

Dean half-walked, half-ran back across the campus, through the nice hedges—which had been a much more discreet route at night when the man who owned them was not outside mowing his lawn—and up the street to the motel. He swallowed as he unlocked the door and it swung open freely, without catching on the chain.

“Dad,” began Dean, stepping into the room and stopping short with one dark look from his father. John and Sam were sitting across from one another at the small, round table in the room. Sam's hair was still wet from the shower, and his head kept nodding over the styrofoam cup of coffee that sat on the table in front of him. Dean didn't miss the bandage wrapped around his little brother's left wrist that was not quite hidden by his sleeve.

“I'm not going to ask you where you were last night,” John said, voice low and gravelly, “because there is no possible excuse for not being here.” Dean clenched his jaw and said nothing.

“Dad—” Sam interjected, the word pitched high and defensive.

“Don't interrupt. When I tell you to wait, you wait. I need you when I need you, and we needed you last night, Dean.” Dean looked down, mouth taught, nostrils flared as he tried to keep his shame off his face. Sam watched his older brother with concern. “Three graves we had to dig up, salt, and burn before dawn. And where were you when one of those gooks came out of nowhere and threw your brother half-way across the cemetery?”

The heat rose in John's voice with every word. “Look at me when I'm talking to you.” Dean's head snapped up, and John stood to look his elder son in the eye.

Sam tried again. “I'm fine, really. Dad, if you could just—”

“Sam.” The exhaustion in John's voice made the word heavy. Sam drew back and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes flashing. John turned back to Dean, who was standing tensed and braced with his hands clasped behind his back. Dean thought his father was going to keep yelling, but instead he only sighed and said, “You're going to have to become a man one of these days, son. Now get cleaned up, get packed. We're leaving.” John picked up his duffel and headed towards the door.

“Dad, I—”

“We're leaving.” John shut the door behind him with finality. Dean unclenched his fists, then strode quickly across the room to where his bag lay discarded and started roughly shoving his things into it. Sam rose from the table and made a point of throwing away his coffee cup with his left hand.

“He shouldn't have yelled at you like that,” Sam said to Dean's turned back.

“No, Sam, he was right.” Dean bunched a t-shirt in his hands, but didn't put it down.

“He wasn't,” Sam insisted, “but you said you were coming back.” All of the air escaped from Dean's lungs and he shut his eyes. “When Dad got back, I wanted to wait for you. I thought at least you'd come find us. I left a note.” Sam walked over to Dean's bed and pulled Dean's knife out from under the pillow, the one he always slept with, the one he hadn't brought to the bar, and Dean could see that there was a yellow post-it attached to it.

“I'm sorry, Sammy.” Dean's voice broke. He looked at his brother, and his brother looked away.

“I know. I'm going to go wait in the car.” Sam paused. He turned back and looked Dean up and down. “You should really change,” he said, and left.

Dean walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He pulled off his jacket, his shirt, put on deodorant. It was not until he was undoing his jeans that his finger slipped over something silky soft and he looked down and realized he was still wearing Rhonda's panties. The rush of heat to his face was immediate, as was the sudden recollection of the feel of the satin on his flushed skin, the warmth of Rhonda's palm—Dean bit his lip. He double-checked that he was alone in the motel room, then let his jeans slide to the floor.

Dean could see himself in the mirror above the sink, the way the shiny fabric hugged his ass and pulled over his cock. He ran a thumb over the waistband, smiling despite himself, until he caught his own eye in the mirror. The smile disappeared, and Dean stepped out of the panties, balling them in his fist. “Not a word,” he warned, pointing sternly at his naked, mirrored self. Dean walked back to his bag and shoved the pink underwear to the bottom, hidden underneath mismatched socks, bits of torn playing cards, and a few loose bullets.

When Dean put on his clothes, he was a hunter again. He slung the duffel over his shoulder, and strode out of the motel room, going to join his family.


End file.
